


What I Love About You

by dragonofdispair



Series: Unrelated Prompt Responses [71]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Alternate Universe - BDSM, Angst, Angst and Fluff, Collars, Fluff, Leashes, M/M, Misunderstandings, Not porn, Valentine’s Day fic, of a sort, trope subversion?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-14
Updated: 2019-02-14
Packaged: 2019-10-25 11:42:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17724536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonofdispair/pseuds/dragonofdispair
Summary: Praxus divides its citizens into dominants and submissives. It’s an arrangement that (mostly) works for them, but for everyone else, it’s really more of a spectrum...





	What I Love About You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Rizobact](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rizobact/gifts).
  * Inspired by [The Flaw in Every Crystal](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3287516) by [monochromeRainbows](https://archiveofourown.org/users/monochromeRainbows/pseuds/monochromeRainbows), [Skylar_Matthews](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skylar_Matthews/pseuds/Skylar_Matthews). 
  * Inspired by [Light Praxus](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7620916) by [pjlover666](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pjlover666/pseuds/pjlover666), [silberstreif](https://archiveofourown.org/users/silberstreif/pseuds/silberstreif). 



> Inspired by both monochromeRainbows and Skylar_Mathews’ _Dark Praxus_ and pjlover666 and silberstreif’s _Light Praxus_. They are both exactly what they say on the tin. I’m not sure what I should say about them, except that I think both should be read with a little bit of caution. This is my take on the concept of Praxus as a dom/sub society. I’m hoping it’s a little bit more character driven than worldbuilding oriented, but caution is probably called for here too.
> 
> This takes place in a version of the war where, though the Autobots were originally formed to oppose the Decepticons, after they worked with the Decepticons to help eliminate the more hilariously villainous aspects of the senate, Megatron decided to try and work with them, entering into a Prime and Protector arrangement with Optimus, reasoning that if things ended up badly again they could always go to war later.
> 
> Beta’d by wicked3659.

.

.

.

He should have discarded the missive when it arrived. It was written on the sort of expensive flimsy that, before the war had only been used by nobles and government officials for frivolous letters. That during the war had been nigh-nonexistent. That, now, apparently, was being used for anything the Praxan government offices wanted to keep from the prying optics of the Autobots’ and Decepticons’ hyper-competent intelligence officers (because if there was one thing they’d all come through the war knowing, it was that Soundwave and Jazz had access to anything remotely digital, anywhere, anytime).

That old association with the frivolous should have made it _easier_ for Prowl send the thing through a shredder, or set fire to the cheery yellow envelope, or both, and be done with it. He could have conveniently lost it, and no one would have been the wiser.

Unfortunately, Prowl was still Praxan enough that he couldn’t so casually discard a missive from the Minister of Citizenship in Praxus. He’d been all but entirely exiled vorns ago, and what further humiliation awaited him haunted his thoughts. Still he left the letter, unopened, in his subspace, carrying it around like an anvil.

Obviously getting drunk wasn’t the solution, but it kept Prowl from thinking about it for a few joors.

“Whatever they want, they’ll want me to bring my bondmate with me,” Prowl mumbled into his drink. He didn’t quite know why he was telling Smokescreen all of this, except that he was also Praxan and, oh yeah, he was very, very drunk.

Across from him, Smokescreen winced. Then he plastered an obviously false smile on his face and leaned over to pat Prowl on the shoulder. “Maybe they’re just telling you that you’ve finally been _officially_ exiled, you know, given how high profile you were during the war.”

Prowl groaned. That would be nice but, “You really think they’d do that to a _war hero?”_ He didn’t like using that moniker for himself, but it was how the public saw him and his actions. “If anything my actions during the war have pressured them into issuing an official pardon.”

Smokescreen winced again.

“I didn’t do it for them,” he hissed into his drink.

“Of course you didn’t,” the other Praxan soothed. Smokescreen was not a naturally soothing individual. He wore it as awkwardly as Prowl did the mantle of morose drunk. Well politics did make for some strange... mantles? Masks? Circumstances! And Prowl had no doubt at all that the letter in his subspace was pure politics. “You could go stag. _If_ it’s a summons.”

Notice how even Smokescreen didn’t really consider shredding it and pretending it had never arrived? Prowl noticed that. It was his job to notice things like that, no matter how much he wanted the highgrade to dull his pain. He ordered another drink.

Eying the _drinks_ that had arrived at their table in the Autobot officers’ lounge, Prowl finally remembered that Smokescreen had made a suggestion. “I can’t go stag,” he said slowly, precisely. He was probably slurring, but he couldn’t hear it if he was. That would be embarrassing in the morning. “Soundwave leaked that I’d bonded to the press. If I’ve been summoned, they’ll expect me to come with my mate.” Soundwave had leaked that Prowl was _bonded,_ but not to whom (probably because the Decepticon liked his spinal struts where they were). Prowl looked at Smokescreen (all three of him) speculatively. “You were classified as a submissive, right?”

“You better not be thinking what I think you’re thinking,” Smokescreen said seriously.

It didn’t matter, because Prowl was definitely thinking what he thought he was thinking. “You could come with me. Pretend, just for a few cycles.”

“All due respect, _Sir,”_ Smokescreen pressed, making Prowl wince, “I wasn’t exiled; I left, and I did it for a reason. You will _never_ convince me to wear a collar again.”

“You wouldn’t have to.” Prowl was affronted by the thought that he would ever _make_ someone wear a collar.

“So let me get this straight,” Smokescreen’s tone turned from insulted to amused so quickly it gave Prowl whiplash. “You’re suggesting I come back, pretending to be your submissive, and _not wear a collar?_ Are you _trying_ to get yourself arrested?”

“No.” The answer was short, sharp and rather sulky for Kaon’s Assistant Security Director. “They won’t arrest me for something like that.” Because arresting a member of a foreign government, and friend of the Prime, would be a headache that Praxus’ government wouldn’t bother taking on. But it did occur to him that Smokescreen might make a bit of a scene with his refusal, and that Prowl would be politely informed he shouldn’t bother coming back. The thought made a curl of pleasure form deep in his tank. Official exile would mean he’d be justified in shredding all future communications — delivered in happy yellow envelopes or not — from Praxus. “Depending on how determined Praxus is to make nice with the post-war reconstructionists, it might not even warrant a reprimand.”

Two of the Smokescreens just gave him a reproachful, knowing, look; the third took a rather large swig of his drink. “This is a drunk-Prowl plan,” he/they said to the sky. “Drunk-Prowl plans never turn out well.”

“I was drunk during the defense of the Coaxial Pass.”

“You collapsed the pass, trapping ten thousand Decepticons in the Sonic Canyons for three quartexes while you pelted them with dry ice.”

“It worked.” Prowl ordered another drink. Pelting the Decepticons with dry ice hadn’t actually been necessary, but it had kept the bored Autobot frontliners from charging down the canyon and getting themselves killed while reinforcements had arrived for both sides.

“Until the Decepticons blasted out part of the canyon wall and opened up a new pass.”

“But it took them three quartexes to do it,” Prowl pointed out as reasonably as possible given the fact that he was making grabby hands at the approaching serving drone’s laden tray. “Given how my orders had been to delay them for five cycles, I’d say the drunk-Prowl plan worked perfectly.”

“Primus help me.”

.

☆♬○♩●♪✧♩　♥ 　♩✧♪●♩○♬☆

.

“Kill me now.” Prowl wasn’t sure how he’d gotten from the lounge to what counted as home. He had the feeling that it was embarrassing. Maybe Smokescreen had towed him? He could see the tabloids now: Assistant Security Director Towed Home by Subordinate. A city full of ~~former~~ Decepticons, and Prowl just had to go drink himself into a stupor. Was he hoping an assassin would shoot him? Except no, Soundwave wouldn’t let him get killed right now. Megatron was trying out this “peace” thing, and Soundwave was a loyal little lackey and so there would be no attempts to kill Prowl.

Not that Prowl expected them to be successful if there were. Assassins generally liked their spinal struts where they were, too.

“Not a chance, lover.” Jazz’s blunted fingers rested lightly on his helm and rubbed in gentle circles. “So care to tell me why Smokescreen called me in a panic, babbling about the crazy plans you come up with while drunk and how he refused to get involved in them? And how he’d really like it if I didn’t kill him because it wasn’t his idea?”

Prowl groaned. He rolled over and buried his face in his pillow. “Nothing,” he mumbled, through the muffling fluff.

“You know I trust you lover, but you came home awfully late...”

“If you’re trying to guilt me into telling you,” Prowl announced, still muffled by the bedding. Bedding he rather hoped would just swallow him up, but he didn’t think his luck was that good. “It won’t work. I _know_ you have access to the lounge security cameras, and you know I did nothing but drink until I passed out.”

He didn’t see Jazz’s pout, but he could feel it in his EM field. Prowl ignored it.

“So what is this I hear about a letter from home?” Jazz asked brightly, feigning a subject change. Since Prowl knew the only person who could have told him about the parasite in his subspace was Smokescreen, Prowl just grunted. This wouldn’t work either. “You’re no fun.”

“I erased that word from my lexicon millennia ago.”

Jazz ignored that and poked Prowl in the side. “So tell me about the letter.”

“You’re an incorrigible gossip and I hate you.”

“Liar.” Jazz poked him again. Then again. “Come on, lover, spill.”

“I’m shredding it as soon as I get to work.” Bad enough that Smokescreen knew about the thing. At least if he left it in his subspace, unopened, Smokescreen would never know more than Prowl had told him last night. Jazz, on the other hand, would have no problem...

... Hacking his subspace to get the letter out and look at it himself. Prowl sighed and rolled over to watch Jazz pop the seal off with his now unsheathed claws in such a way that it could be re-melted to the flimsy intact and without anyone aware it had been opened. Since there was no way Prowl would ever believe the letter hadn’t been tampered with _now,_ he had to assume that it was just habit.

Prowl waited, then gave in to the inevitable. “What’s it say?”

He expected Jazz to make some sort of pithy joke. What Jazz actually said was a very serious, “I’m sorry for your loss,” as he handed the letter back to Prowl.

Somewhat alarmed by this, Prowl finally read the letter for himself.

 

 

> ... this Office offers you our condolences for the death of your mentor, Master Yoketron. In light of your recent actions in the defense of all mechs against the Decepticon threat, and in accordance with the Master’s wishes, you and your bondmate have been invited by the Ministry of Citizenship to attend the funeral and the reading of Master Yoketron’s will...

 

“Oh.” What was Prowl supposed to say to that?

“You should call in sick today,” Jazz said, probably already calling the Lord Protector to do just that. “I’ll talk to our boss and get us the time off.”

Prowl knew he should say something, tell his bondmate no, this wasn’t what he wanted, that he was going to put this letter through the shredder, light a candle in remembrance, and go back to work and on with his life. He couldn’t get the words out.

Shock, his war-programmed first aid training whispered.

“It’s okay,” Jazz kissed Prowl’s cheek gently and guided him back down into the bed. Obviously following his own Ratchet-written programming for the treatment of shock, he pulled the blanket over Prowl’s unresisting form and tucked him carefully in. Prowl watched Jazz pull the, frankly ludicrously overstocked, first aid kit from under the bed and activate a trio of chemical heating pads, then tuck them under the blankets with him. Immediately, Prowl felt warmer. He tried to thank Jazz, but the words wouldn’t come. “Here,” he partially unwrapped a solid ration bar and put it in Prowl’s hand. “Eat that when you can, and don’t worry. I’ll take care of everything.”

. 

☆♬○♩●♪✧♩　♥ 　♩✧♪●♩○♬☆

.

Prowl should have known he couldn’t trust Jazz to make arrangements to tell the Praxan Ministry of Citizenship to piss off. “Piss off” weren’t words Prowl indulged in often, so of course by the time Prowl had recovered from his shock to articulate what he actually wanted, Jazz had arranged for two decacycles off of work for both of them and two train tickets to Praxus.

Seeing the familiar planes and angles of Praxan architecture was making his systems alternate between homesickness and panic, and they hadn’t even left the station yet.

“You don’t have to come,” Prowl said for the twenty-third time since the previous cycle. He was carrying a suitcase in which Jazz had packed the only one of the things they were taking that didn’t fit in either of their subspace pockets: a stained glass lantern, lit from within by several LEDs and a small scrap of flimsy. The scrap of flimsy wasn’t from Prowl and Jazz; it was from Megatron, who apparently had been a great admirer of Master Yoketron in life, and was depending on Prowl to deliver this poem to his funerary platform. No pressure. So Prowl was stuck with this trip, but Jazz wasn’t! Maybe it was a disgrace to show up stag, given the circumstances, but Prowl had always been a bit of a disgrace. “You can just go to the Grand Gardens, or hit the other tourist spots. No one will care if you’re at the funeral or not.”

“Liar,” Jazz said fondly. “That letter pretty clearly implied we were both expected.” He checked the exits of the crowded train station again. They both felt more comfortable if there was an easy escape, but they were also supposed to be meeting someone here who’d be taking them to where they’d be staying; Prowl didn’t know anything else. Jazz had made the arrangements. “I don’t need protection.”

“No you don’t.” He kissed Jazz’s helm, doors giving a reserved little flutter. “It’s just that Praxus is a little... rigid. I know how much you like rigid.” The mech somehow managed to type outside the text boxes of his form letter letters. Prowl had never figured out how he did it, but that he bothered was a huge clue for anyone as to just how much Jazz liked adhering to rigid expectations.

“I _have_ been to Praxus before,” Jazz sang lightly, nudging Prowl in the side.

“You have?” That wasn’t in his file. “Vacation or...”

“Redacted.” Jazz grinned, showing off his sharpened canines. “Since before you made lieutenant in the Iacon Police.”

“So you have a cover story.” Prowl felt his doors relax in relief. Maybe this wouldn’t be the sort of total disaster where his city of forging ruined a perfectly good thing for him. He looked Jazz over again. The Polyhexian’s doors were a little small, but his frame was close enough that he could pass as a Praxan native if he wanted. Prowl started laying down plans... “Was it a dom or a sub?” He fully expected Jazz’s cover had been as a...

“Dom,” Jazz confirmed. “I can walk that walk easily enough.”

Dom/dom relationships were scandalous but not unheard of. Prowl coming back bonded to a foreign dom... well it wouldn’t make anyone comfortable, but their comfort could piss off. If Prowl were _trying_ to regain his citizenship, this would be a rather large hurdle, but as it was the Ministry of Citizenship could suck his... ahem. Moving on. Prowl would go to the funeral, present his funeral gifts, grit his teeth through the excruciatingly tedious reception afterward, then hide in his hotel until it was time to catch the train home. People would just assume that they had an unspecified third, a submissive, and Prowl could just leave them to their delusions...

“I didn’t want to embarrass you,” Jazz went on, obviously unaware of the direction of Prowl’s thoughts, “so I made sure to bring a collar to wear.”

Prowl’s thoughts came to a screeching halt. “A collar?”

“And a leash. I picked them out. They’re red — the same color as your chevron — with brass spikes.”

“Red with spikes?” A collar and leash. _Jazz_ had bought a collar and leash, to wear for Prowl. A collar with spikes. Some of his old instincts and training tried to sit up and take notice, and Prowl very firmly kicked that younger-Prowl down some mental stairs. Younger-Prowl was an idiot. “I’m not possessive.”

Jazz tilted his head to look at Prowl with just the corner of his visor. “No, you’re not. But,” he grinned wickedly, _“I_ am.”

Right. That made sense. Except the part where it didn’t make any sense at all.

“So what sobriquet do you prefer?” Jazz asked blithely, digging out the collar in question and putting it on; Prowl fought not to stare. There was no reason to stare, no matter how much it made him purr to see that on his mate’s neck. There was another part of him that felt nauseous.

“‘Sir’ works.” If Jazz was determined to build his cover around a submissive identity, then it wasn’t Prowl’s place to tell him he was incapable. It wasn’t like he couldn’t appreciate Jazz’s effort to make sure Prowl’s trip home went as smoothly as possible. It was _unneeded_ but Prowl could appreciate that Jazz cared enough to try. And maybe he had his own reasons for wanting to establish himself as a submissive; Prowl still wasn’t privy to all of Jazz’s assignments...

“‘Sir’ does _not_ work,” Jazz huffed, handing Prowl the matching leash, with brass studs instead of spikes, making it easier to grab in a hurry. He refrained from clipping it to the collar; instead he wrapped it several times around his hand and let the clip dangle freely. “I could pull it off, but you’ll just click to attention every time I say it, which is, well...”

“If you’re going to play at being my submissive, then you are my subordinate.” Prowl made sure his voice was full of the sort of smug superiority that still drove everyone, including Megatron, completely nuts. It was a small redeeming pleasure in this situation.

“Not _that_ kind of subordinate,” Jazz grumbled. “The last thing I want is my commander in my berth.” Prowl opened his mouth just to further harass Jazz by reminding him of that whole century he’d spent with a crush on Optimus Prime, his literal commander, but Jazz spoke over him too quickly. “How about ‘Master’?”

Prowl choked on his words. “No!”

“Lord? Captain? _Prince?”_

“I’m going to have you reassigned to the one of our polar outposts,” Prowl grumbled.

“Except you ca~n’t,” Jazz sang, leaning against Prowl solicitously. “Because you’re not part of my command structure anymore. Come on,” he poked Prowl, “just tell me what you used when you were younger.”

Really, it would be what Master Yoketron’s other students would be expecting Prowl to use... “Ace.”

Jazz opened his mouth, and Prowl braced himself for the teasing. Yes, he _knew_ it was a rather silly sobriquet—

“Prowl? Jazz?” A familiar voice made them both look up at Bluestreak pushing his way through the crowd. Jazz’s gaze quickly averted, looking down demurely. “Wow. Look at you two.”

Prowl almost missed his cue to return the greeting, the words _“Are you alright, Jazz?”_ hovering on his vocalizer. That was totally unlike his mate, and seeing it was unexpectedly disturbing... But Jazz was pretending now. Did that mean they would be keeping up the act in front of _Bluestreak_ too?

“You look like you’re adapting,” he said politely to Bluestreak. Hopefully they could address Jazz’s behavior later. Bluestreak had been too young to have been sorted when the Autobots had pulled him from the wreckage of that cargo convoy and he’d subsequently joined their ranks. He’d served the entire war alongside Praxans who also did not wear any signs of their orientation, so when he’d chosen to return to Praxus, Prowl had made it clear that he would always be welcome in Iacon (since that had been before he’d been transferred to Kaon). Now, though, Bluestreak wore the wristlet of a dominant with all appearances of comfort. “You haven’t found a lucky partner yet, have you?”

“Nah.” Bluestreak toyed with the clip hanging from his wrist where he could attach a paddle, crop, or other toys such that it was easy to carry and did not impede use of his hand. “Bachelor for life. I much prefer playing with other peoples’ toys. I have room to put up both of you for a few cycles.”

“Thank you for your hospitality. Jazz,” he bit back the impulse to add ‘pet’, “thank our host.”

“Thank you, Bluestreak.” They didn’t hug like the friends they were, and Prowl resisted the urge to glare at the spikes on his collar that declared Jazz off-limits. It wasn’t fair.

If Bluestreak thought there was anything odd about the way Jazz was acting, he didn’t show it. And why not? Jazz was just acting like a good submissive in public. “It’s no problem,” he assured. “I’ll show you the way.”

“Thank you.” Prowl picked up the suitcase before Jazz could and followed Bluestreak out.

Outside the train station, the nostalgia and homesickness hit even harder; Prowl’s breath caught. He had grown used to Kaon’s war ravaged industrial architecture. By comparison, Praxus’s gleaming crystal business towers soared up into the sky, seemingly untouched by the artillery strikes and even orbital bombardment that had scarred so much of the rest of the planet.

“It’s beautiful,” Jazz whispered demurely and Prowl tore his gaze from the city’s skyline to the sub— his _mate_ standing only a half-step behind him.

“It is,” Prowl confirmed, tacitly giving Jazz permission to speak. Determinedly, he turned away from the reminders of Jazz’s role in this and back to the towers. He had missed that beauty, but it came at a price he had long ago grown unwilling to participate in.

“Will we get to see the gardens while we’re here?” Jazz asked breathlessly. Any other Praxan dominant would have reprimanded him for not using the sobriquet when asking a direct question; Prowl was just grateful to avoid that silliness for a cycle longer.

Instead he pulled up the itinerary he had. The two train tickets were a decacycle apart, while the funeral and reception should only take a single cycle. Maybe if he’d still felt fond of his fellow students, he’d take a few extra cycles to visit them, but he wasn’t and so he wouldn’t. “If you want,” he acquiesced to Jazz’s question. Jazz’s plans, whatever they were, were _much_ more important. “We can certainly take the time for that.”

“Excellent,” Bluestreak clapped his hands together once. “I know one of the gardeners — an unattached submissive — and he’ll give you guys a tour.”

“That would very kind of you.” Prowl thought that he would have preferred to take the cycle for themselves, but it would have been rude to outright refuse. “In the meantime, I think travel has fatigued us both.”

“Right. So silly of me to have forgotten. This way.” Bluestreak folded down into his sleek alt mode; Prowl and Jazz echoed him.

Driving through the forest of perfect architecture only deepened the feeling of homesickness. Prowl tried to ignore it, focusing on sticking close to Bluestreak in the Praxan traffic. He wasn’t as worried about Jazz being separated from him. It was one of the few perks of Jazz taking on a submissive role: no one would get between them unless they were _trying_ to provoke him.

Fortunately, Bluestreak’s apartment was in a quieter residential district. It was a neat and clean neighborhood, with a small park for getting stay-at-home submissives out into the sunshine and exercising pets on the corner. Nearby there was a monorail station for commuters who had to work in either one of the outlying districts or who simply wished to avoid some of the traffic going downtown. The building itself was relatively small — only five stories — which made it one of the taller ones in this neighborhood. Prowl saw the optics of nosy neighbors peeking out of windows as they drove up. Everyone would know they were here within a cycle. Lovely.

“Your room’s in there,” Bluestreak waved at a darkened hall. “I’ll get some fuel ready for you.”

“Thank you,” Prowl spoke for both himself and Jazz, who followed him silently into the guest room.

He flipped on the lights and closed the door gratefully behind him. His doors sagged in relief.

“Ace?”

Prowl groaned. “Don’t call me that in private,” he said firmly. “In fact, tell me you don’t plan to go our entire visit like that?” He waved his door at Jazz, trying to encompass the collar, Jazz’s lowered doors, and the entire biddable and docile demeanor Jazz had adopted.

“Maybe you’d like to lay down, Ace,” Jazz responded softly. It wasn’t an answer, but it answered Prowl’s question. “I can put our things away while you rest?”

Reminding himself that Jazz was building a _cover_ and that that, yes, that did mean keeping up the act at all times, Prowl groaned and did as he was bid. He flopped down onto Bluestreak’s perfectly made up guest bed, buried his head in the pillows, and resisted the urge to scream.

Dinner was excruciating. Prowl would have liked to know if Bluestreak had been made aware of Jazz’s cover-building, or if he’d just gone so native here that he’d forgotten the beautiful, vivacious, _willful_ mech Jazz was the instant he’d seen the collar around his neck.

Stiffly, Prowl took his seat so that Jazz could go ahead and kneel on the cushion set out next to it; a submissive’s place at the table was at his dominant’s feet. Bluestreak had prepared a simple midgrade blend for the two of them and a plate of nibbles for Jazz. Almost mechanically, Prowl went ahead and fed Jazz the nibbles. He couldn’t deny there was a part of himself that enjoyed this, having Jazz at his feet, but he kept kicking that younger-Prowl down his mental stairs and back into his subconscious where he belonged. This wasn’t what he wanted. This was a cover, nothing more. Jazz was allowed to eat on his own, but to refuse to feed Jazz a plate that had obviously been prepared for him could be construed as either a rejection of Bluestreak’s hospitality or a sign he was restricting Jazz’s fuel intake, neither of which would do Prowl any good. He might be hoping to be told to leave Praxus and never come back, but he didn’t need a reputation for being an abusive dom... especially if anyone actually remembered the reasons Prowl had left.

As quickly as he could, he went ahead and gave Jazz and Bluestreak permission to speak to each other. That helped the conversation be less awkward, since Prowl could withdraw from active participation and listen to the two of them plan out this “vacation” like it was a military campaign.

Apparently they were shopping next cycle.

“—lieve my Prowl doesn’t even have a wristlet anymore?” Jazz was saying, while Prowl tried not to bury his face in his hands.

“I know just the place.” Bluestreak leaned forward so he could look down at Jazz from across the small table. Jazz looked away shyly and leaned against Prowl’s leg; automatically, Prowl placed a reassuring hand on Jazz’s helm. Protecting those less empowered than himself had been one of the few dom lessons he’d never tried to excise... even if _Jazz_ did not need protecting from _Bluestreak._ He was sending all the right signals, and Prowl responded, even if he hated seeing his mate acting so shy, so much unlike his normal self. If Bluestreak saw something wrong with the interaction, he didn’t draw attention to it. “It’s just a small, local shop a few blocks from here. We could even walk, if you want.” He looked at Prowl.

He wanted to snap that this was his and Jazz’s little trip, he should be asking _Jazz,_ not—

“Oooh can we?” Prowl looked down at Jazz, gazing lovingly up at him, visor sparkling with just the right amount of innocence. “We could look at the neighborhood too. I didn’t get to see much as we drove in.”

“Of course, Jazz,” _-pet_. “Whatever you want.”

“You spoil me, Ace.”

It was on the tip of his tongue to say _“Of course I do”_ like it was his _right_ to say if Jazz was allowed outside or not. At one point those words, and the sentiment behind them, had been perfectly normal for him, and he hated how easily he was falling back onto old habits. Feeling disgusted with himself, he caressed Jazz one last time. “Excuse me though, I think I’m more fatigued than I thought I was. You two stay up as long as you wish and get reacquainted,” because Prowl would _never_ pull a submissive — or _Jazz,_ who was _not a submissive_ — away from his friends, even another dom. He placed the plate of nibbles on his chair, to indicate Jazz could continue eating. “Good night.”

“Good night, Prowl.”

“I’ll be along soon, Ace.”

Not trusting his voice, Prowl just nodded, then fled the room.

He left the guest room dark and crawled into the berth, pulling the covers over himself as though he could hide. He forced himself to recharge — no one who survived the war was prone to rumination when they should be resting — and barely stirred when Jazz slipped into the berth with him. By habit, they arranged themselves so that Jazz was closer to the door (Jazz was a superb melee fighter, and while Prowl was no slouch in that department, his combat strengths were in his tactical processor and his near-perfect aim).

Without truly waking, Prowl checked that Jazz’s fingers were wrapped around the hilt of his usual energon knife under their pillow, then fell back into dreams.

.

☆♬○♩●♪✧♩　♥ 　♩✧♪●♩○♬☆

.

 _Walking_ meant the leash.

It was a rather nice cycle to be out. That didn’t help Prowl, because it meant that there were others out walking to their destinations, instead of going from one point to the next as quickly as possible. And that meant there were more people who saw Jazz on the leash. Curious neighbors, some with their own leashed submissives, stopped to talk to Bluestreak and Prowl, and inquire about various topics. Prowl made sure that he introduced Jazz to each person, and encouraged him to talk, and loathed that it was necessary.

At least Jazz didn’t seem disturbed by his situation. He flitted around at the end of his leash like an excited turbopuppy. Prowl probably should have reigned him in, but he was so gladdened to see this aspect of his mate’s true personality shining through that he couldn’t bring himself to.

The shop Bluestreak brought them to was on a small riverside walkway with perhaps a half-dozen other shops. It wasn’t quite a place meant for tourists, but for residents looking for a trendy way to spend their afternoons off of work. They walked by several small, open air restaurants, which fascinated Jazz. If Prowl hadn’t known better, he would have guessed the innocent, enthusiastic submissive had never seen anything like them before.

“Oooh! This one’s a bakery,” Jazz bounced at the end of his leash. “Do you think we should take some treats back to Kaon? I’m sure your friends would like to try some Praxan cakes.”

“Later,” Prowl said, not opposed to the idea. “Maybe right before our train leaves.”

“We could try them before then, though, right Ace?”

Prowl rolled his optics at the silly sobriquet. “I assume you mean now?”

Jazz smiled.

“How about after shopping?” Bluestreak suggested. “We just ate before we left.”

Prowl’s doors started to flare out and the hissed words _”We’re not in charge of Jazz!”_ queued up in his processor —

“Okay,” Jazz agreed docilely. “That’s better anyway.”

 _Jazz is building a cover,_ he reminded himself and let himself be dragged into the accessory shop.

Prowl learned to hate the spikes on Jazz’s chosen collar all over again, because seeing them, the shopkeeper made... certain assumptions and Prowl found himself fending off all sorts of suggestions for crops and whips and painful restraints. The thought of putting Jazz in a set of stasis cuffs was rather sickening. For his part, Jazz played the part of an intimidated young submissive far too well, and Prowl found himself pulling him in to stay next to him (where it was safe) and flicking his doors out to keep the shopkeeper from looking at Jazz while he offered them some of the most extreme toys and restraints in the shop.

Bluestreak rescued them by picking out a simple red wristlet — more of a glove, honestly — with a brass clip, a soft black collar without spikes (“Since that one looks uncomfortable to sleep in” which _Jazz had slept in his collar!?!_ ) and a coil of red, nylon rope. Resisting the urge growl, Prowl paid for the simple items, then dragged both of them over to the bakery.

They sat down on the patio with three cups of tea, a plate of energon filled macarons and some oilcake pops. Prowl didn’t want to have to feed Jazz — he’d avoided it at breakfast by getting up early to make liquid mixes for all three of them and then refusing to sit at the table — but there wasn’t a way around it.

When Jazz started licking Prowl’s fingers, he was torn between letting his fingers linger in Jazz’s mouth and spanking him, and ended up doing nothing.

Bluestreak suggested they try a gardening store, and Jazz visibly perked up so Prowl let himself be pulled in. This was better than the previous shop. Gardening was traditionally a submissive’s activity, so it didn’t look at all odd that Prowl unhooked Jazz and urged him to take the lead here. The retailer was also a submissive, and very enthusiastic about the crystals he was selling. They talked about available space, nutrient baths, and proper lighting. With a smile, Prowl recognized many of the things _he_ had told Jazz over the vorns. Relaxing, Prowl turned away to let them have their fun and looked at the displays.

They reminded him of the tiny miniatures he’d made during the war. He’d made several, the government palace, the riverfront, the arboretum, the grand gardens... but only one small miniature of the gardens outside Master Yoketron’s dojo had survived the fighting. Of course his miniatures didn’t have true, living crystals; they were far too small, and mostly had been constructed of scrap. Gardening was one of the things he’d missed most about being functionally exiled from Praxus. Of course younger-Prowl hadn’t really appreciated being ordered to go out and tend the garden, but Master Yoketron hadn’t been interested in indulging a young idiot’s prejudices.

_I’m going to miss you, Master._

“Ace!” Prowl turned away from his contemplation of a tiny, energon-cube sized fountain to see that Jazz had taken advantage of his distraction to pile the counter high with tiny jars, rocks, nutrient solutions, and small crystals of various colors and sizes. “We’re ready to check out.”

The shopkeeper’s dom had come over from the restaurant next door to ring up the purchase, and, what was this? A sign up sheet for a subscription box of two new crystals a quartex? Prowl shook his head. He hadn’t known Jazz had any interest in gardening at all. Maybe it was his cover, maybe Jazz actually expected Prowl to veto some of these purchases, but even if he’d felt he had the right to, Prowl thought he would be rather happy with these once they got home.

This had been his suggestion, but Bluestreak just looked bored when they were finished and collected him from the display of wind chimes.

The park was worse than the accessory store though. His end of the leash now attached to his wristlet so his hand remained free, Prowl unhooked it from Jazz’s collar when they entered the “off leash” area. He wrapped it around his hand so it would be out of the way.

“What do I do now, Ace?” Jazz asked guilelessly.

Feeling like the park was a rather bad idea now, Prowl answered. “Go gossip with the other subs and enjoy the sunshine,” he nodded to the gaggle of submissives gathered around a planting box. It looked like they’d crashed a local gardening club meeting.

Jazz looked over at them, then back to Prowl. Prowl nodded. He was not possessive and he had no right to keep Jazz at his side. With a sigh, Jazz took his new crystals and the planting materials and went to join them. Prowl groaned and sat down right where he was.

“There’s a bench over here,” Bluestreak called from nearby.

Prowl looked up. Thankfully it wasn’t near where the other doms were hanging out with each other, drinking (probably cocktails) and watching their submissives possessively. The thought of keeping such a close watch on Jazz made his tank roil. He carefully weighed the advantages of being comfortable in the seat, or indulging in a good sulk right where he was, and with a sigh got up to go sit next to Bluestreak.

 _Do you know what Jazz is doing?_ Prowl almost asked—

“The funeral’s next cycle, right?” Bluestreak spoke before Prowl could get a chance.

Prowl shook his head, reordering his thoughts to focus on the next cycle, not as an evaluation of his ability to balance between providing Jazz the dominant he needed to maintain his cover and not falling into habits he’d long ago abandoned, but as cycle of grief marred by politics.

“It is.” The thought made Prowl feel heavy and exhausted.

“It’s hard losing your mentor,” Bluestreak remarked. He said nothing else but he scooted closer to Prowl — closer than two dominants were technically supposed to sit — and draped his door over Prowl’s back, offering support. Bluestreak, of course, had lost his mentor in the cargo convoy attack that had led him to joining the Autobots.

Prowl didn’t need him to say anything else. The sun was warm, the wind was cool, and they were together in their grief.

Jazz got all of his little crystals planted in their little cups, and was very proudly carrying them arranged in an extra planting tray one of the club members had given him when they got back to Bluestreak’s apartment. Bluestreak suggested a vidgame tournament, and Prowl begged off, claiming fatigue. Mostly he just didn’t want Jazz at his feet, leaning against him at the perfect height to stroke his fingers over his helm... He didn’t want the excuse to _keep_ Jazz on the leash, to sit with him and eventually slip up and call him _“pet”._

And maybe Jazz and Bluestreak would act like they were normal friends if Prowl wasn’t there.

.

☆♬○♩●♪✧♩　♥ 　♩✧♪●♩○♬☆

.

Surrounded by the crowd of Master Yoketron’s students and other mourners, Prowl didn’t have the processing power to be disturbed by Jazz’s solemn and deferential behavior. He followed Prowl silently, his presence barely a tug at his wrist when the leash pulled taunt; Prowl didn’t sob as he walked to the funerary pyre. He knew he and Jazz were the center of attention, and there was a single processing thread that hoped Jazz would be un-submissive-like and Prowl wouldn’t have to do this; the rest was focused on holding himself in perfect control as he approached and knelt. Jazz knelt behind him, close enough that the leash tethering them would not hinder Prowl’s movements, with barely a whisper of sound.

Silently, Prowl set up the lantern Jazz had bought as their funerary gift. It did not look out of place at all among scores of similar gifts. Bright, symbolic, but impersonal.

_Master, you were a light to so very many of us._

He turned it on, and several of the watching mourners _”Oooh”_ d, impressed with the thing. But Prowl wasn’t done.

He pinned the flimsy Megatron had written to the pyre itself. He didn’t open it, despite what he knew would be burning curiosity on the parts of many of the mourners. Those words were between Megatron and the departed Master. Prowl’s limbs felt wooden. In truth he couldn’t care what Megatron had to say to Master Yoketron.

The last gift he pressed into the stakes of the pyre without fanfare, without words. A single rock, taken from the dojo’s garden. Master Yoketron had given it to Prowl, to remind him of what he had to return to. It was terrible that Prowl had never petitioned to return on the strength of what Yoketron had given him.

Now Prowl gave it back.

Prowl sat back up, but he felt like he couldn’t move. He was a puppet with his strings cut. He stared at the stack of iron I-beams, at the body barely concealed within.

“Prowl?” Jazz’s hands on his arm and shoulder made him turn towards his mate. He didn’t force Jazz to say anything else; he followed, vacating the space so that the next mourner could offer his gifts.

He continued to stand, somewhat off to the side in a silent daze until everyone had had their chance, and the pyre was lowered into the smelter and everything reduced to its raw materials and a handful of impurities. Alone in the flickering shadows, Prowl offered his old Master an Autobot salute.

He hadn’t recovered by the time they were ushered inside the funeral home for the reception. The air felt too heavy in his engine. With a subtle hand on his back, beneath his doors, Jazz guided him to a corner of the room, in the shadow of a pillar. Prowl stood and stared at the crowd, and automatically released Jazz from the leash when he asked quietly.

Jazz returned with two drinks; Prowl didn’t bother with the leash.

Out of the way, almost hidden as they were, it still didn’t take long for mechs to find them. Prowl answered questions mechanically. Most of them were just as mechanical condolences, or welcomes back to Praxus. The Minister of Citizenship came by, but only stayed a klik, telling Prowl to come by the office before he left to discuss his citizen status. Prowl promised to call and make an appointment, then promptly dumped the whole processing thread into his circular file.

“That mean you can come back to Praxus, Ace?” Jazz stepped close, private; Prowl petted the plating of his helm and shoulder reassuringly. He wasn’t sure if he was reassuring Jazz or himself.

“Possibly,” and it occurred that it was Jazz, and his determination to behave, that had tipped the scales. He had a properly trained bonded. Prowl looked like he had become a productive — a hero! — non-disruptive member of society. He couldn’t dishonor Jazz’s efforts by telling him they were unneeded.

The reception passed in a blur. It wore on, as such things tended to. Prowl was sure there were a great many stories and tales of Master Yoketron being shared, but he didn’t feel up to contributing. This was one death in a sea of them Prowl had witnessed. This grief should be trivial, so as not to dishonor those who had sacrificed themselves for a new world, and yet it wasn’t. One death, and Prowl felt like he was drowning.

“The favorite student returns,” a nearby voice sneered. Prowl looked blankly at the mech. One of Master Yoketron’s students. He recognized him from before he’d left the dojo, but in his current state he couldn’t recall the mech’s name. “If you’ve come to claim the dojo, you’re too late.”

The dojo... what was happening to the dojo?

Primus, Prowl _hoped_ it hadn’t been bequeathed to him.

“Nothing to say, traitor?”

“No,” Prowl answered honestly. The mech was making enough of a disgrace of himself; he didn’t need Prowl to help him along.

The mech stepped forward, and Prowl could smell the highgrade and the grief on him. They were all dealing in different ways. He reached out and pushed Prowl; absently he noticed an elaborate wristlet and a heavy steel clip on his hand. The mech didn’t have the strength to push Prowl very hard; Prowl’s frame had been heavily modded for combat over a century ago. A single drunken shove from someone not so upgraded was hardly a threat.

Jazz did not agree. “Back off, mech,” he growled lowly from his place behind and to the side of Prowl.

The mech glanced at Jazz and sneered. “You so much of a spineless coward you train your pets to fight your battles for you?”

Prowl should have said _“No”_ and left it at that. Left the reception entirely, in fact. Taken Jazz and gone back to Bluestreak’s and curled up in bed while Jazz and Bluestreak played vidgames until who-knew-what time of the night. He _should_ have left it at _“No”._

What he actually hissed out, anger breaking through the listlessness of grief, was, “Jazz is not a pet!”

That was at the same time that Jazz snarled out, “Prowl isn’t a coward!” and pounced with suddenly unsheathed claws.

.

☆♬○♩●♪✧♩　♥ 　♩✧♪●♩○♬☆

.

Praxus faded into the distance behind them. Prowl and Jazz both watched the glittering buildings become a smudge of light on the horizon.

“Damn,” Jazz remarked calmly. “I was really looking forward to seeing the Grand Gardens.”

Prowl did not break out into a fit of hysterical giggles, but it was a near thing. “You brought enough crystals back with you. In a century, Kaon will have gardens nearly as grand.” They had not been kicked out of the city so much as politely informed their itinerary had been updated and their train would be leaving the next cycle. They had seen a medic, then stayed for the reading of Master Yoketron’s will. Then they had collected their belongings, and even stopped by the bakery to buy several boxes of treats for their coworkers back in Kaon, before being ushered into the train and into their new, first class accommodations.

Jazz poked his shoulder, rather hard. His claws were sheathed, but he had the strong struts and cables needed to support them and he could make even a blunt poke hurt. “I bought those crystals for _you,_ dumbaft.”

“What?”

Prowl got the distinct impression that were he capable of it, Jazz would have rolled his optics. “I don’t even like crystals. _You’re_ the one always going on about how much you miss gardening!”

“I do miss gardening.”

“Well now you have, like, twenty tiny weeds for your windowsill, and two more each quartex until whenever you cancel that subscription box.” Jazz poked him again. “I refuse to be driven out of my bed by those things though; we are moving someplace else before they take over that much. I thought you’d help me plant them! I still have nutrient solution in my finger servos!”

“I didn’t want to drive off your friends.”

 _“Your_ friends! Praxan gardeners! You think it was a _coincidence_ we got there right as the club meeting was getting started?”

“Submissives,” Prowl inserted firmly. “If I’d gone near them, it would have only started that fight a cycle earlier.”

That brought Jazz’s rant to a screeching halt. “Oh.”

“In truth, I am relieved it turned out this way,” Prowl stated, for all appearances speaking to the window and not to Jazz, a klik later. “I was not looking forward to meeting with the Minister to discuss my citizenship, and I dreaded going the rest of the decacyle watching you debase yourself like that.”

“I didn’t feel debased,” Jazz protested. “I know you miss Praxus. I just wanted to help.”

“I know. I appreciate the effort.” Prowl turned from the window. He held out his hand and waited for Jazz to take it before continuing. “But missing Praxus does not mean I want to go back to it. I’d rather have you, beautiful and willful and _you,_ than Praxus.”

“I love you.”

Prowl’s spark swelled. “You are my soul.”

Jazz cuddled against Prowl’s side and purred. Prowl stroked his side, reveling in the contact. This would only have been allowed in Praxus itself if Jazz deigned to beg for it. Prowl enjoyed having the freedom — as hard fought for, as hard won in its own way, as the war itself — to offer it freely. He turned back to the window, watching the landscape go by. If this was to be his last glimpse of his homeland, he wanted to remember it fondly.

The circumstances of this exile were certainly better than those of his last. Younger-Prowl had been angry, insisting he was _leaving,_ not being kicked out, and had sulked all the way to Iacon. Older-Prowl could be patient, and look toward his destination with joy.

“So does this mean I have to get rid of the collar and leash?” Jazz asked out of the blue as darkness fell, and even Prowl’s nostalgia clouded optics could not fool him into believing he could see anything in the window but reflections.

There was something about the wording of that question that sounded odd to Prowl. Jazz had an attitude of nonchalance, but he was as careful with his words as Prowl was. “Have to? Does that mean you _want_ to keep them?” Prowl could not imagine why.

“Well yeah.” Jazz traced designs on Prowl’s leg with blunted fingers. “You know in private, with a partner I trust... They’re kind of fun. I kept waiting for you to ask, because, you know, I _had_ been to Praxus before, but you never did.”

Prowl’s processor though was stuck on just one word. “Fun? You think...” collars and leashes are fun? “You’re not a submissive.” He was sure of that. Jazz did not act like a submissive, did not want a dominant. It was one of the many, many things Prowl loved about him.

“Naw, I’m more of a switch.”

.

.

.

End

Platonic Valentine’s gift for Rizobact. Happy Valentine’s Day! ♥


End file.
